


Pyrrhus

by vorpal_platypus



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vorpal_platypus/pseuds/vorpal_platypus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Happy, happy Hunger Games, Levi. May the odds be ever in your favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pyrrhus

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [my writing blog](http://theplatypusquacks.tumblr.com/post/71170800304/pyrrhus).

You are fourteen. You are cold in the winter and hungry the rest of the year, so you scribble your name twice and drop it into the reaping pot. You wrote it twice last year, and you wrote it twice more the year before. There are six strips of paper bearing your name in the pot when the Escort dips their hand into the pot. The sound of people breathing, living is too loud and masks the paper’s crinkling. You close your eyes.

They call your name.

It is the 70th Hunger Games, and you are fourteen.

*

You’ve never been on a train. You’ve been near them though. Your hands scraped against the undersides of wooden planks as you helped hoist them onto train cars that would deliver them to the Capitol. Sometimes you left work with splinters in your skin. You’d take a knife, wipe it down with alcohol, and dig until they came out. You’d wrap your hand with a clean cloth for the night and untie in the morning, before you went to work. Your hands are rough with scars and calluses.

This train is different from the ones you usually see. The lumber trains are boxy, rusty where the paint was peeling and at the hinges so they shrieked as they were pried open for loading. They wheezed out smoke in a screech as they limped away, wheels thudding against the tracks. This one is sleek, plated in smoothly curved white plastic. As you step inside, the floor is covered in plush carpet instead of bare.

You find your way to the last car on the train, where the windowed walls are lined with sofas. There isn’t much for you to see though, because the train is moving too quickly. The world outside blurs, and while there is no rhythmic clacking from the tracks, there is the quiet, constant hum from the engine, and maybe that’s enough.

You slip your shoes from your feet, curl your legs up to your chest and go to sleep.

*

“Oh, what lovely cheekbones!”

“Looks more gaunt than lovely to me. How am I supposed to conceal these under circles without it looking cakey, hmm?”

“What I want to know,” says the third, “is how your hands are in such a state! Look at them! Don’t you take care of your nails? They’re peeling.”

You try to shrug, but it’s hard when someone has your arm pinned down to rub oil into your nails. “I climb a lot of trees.”

“Is that a thing? Tree climbing? Like a sport?”

“Careful with his hands, I’m going to lean him down so I can get started on his hair. Such a shame it’s so coarse and dry, but don’t worry dear, that’s what we’re here for.”

“His eyebrows!” wails the second one. “They’re a disaster! Overgrown with hairs all over the place. Quick, what kind of shape should I make them? You are very lucky I got myself a new tube of brow gel just for the occasion! The odds were definitely in your favor today.” She giggles.

You somehow doubt that, but you can’t manage a word as one of them grabs your face. “Hmm,” he says, “his brow bone is rather strong. Very defined nose. Eyes are a bit small, but I think it’s good enough to work with.”

From the corner of your eye, you spot an Avox with her eyes cast down, walking slow, deliberate steps as she carries a basin of steaming water. As she comes closer you see the water is murky mud brown; it smells pungent and medicinal. The Avox sets it down and bows before scurrying away. You think if she could make herself smaller, she would.

The prep team member working on your hands maneuvers your feet into the basin. You hiss because the water is close to scalding hot, and your toes squelch against the bloated plant matter at the bottom.

“Your feet too Just let them soak until the skin is soft and then I’ll slough off all the dead skin.”

You don’t think there’s much you can contribute or that anything you say would be heard, so you keep quiet and let your prep team work. You grimace when they attack your brows with a tweezer, shove your cuticles back to the root. Your skin is rubbed red and raw until it’s soft to the touch, then soothed with sweetly scented oils. When they’re done, there’s nothing left of the forest on your body, until they start pasting on bits of fake tree bark.

“Wait, what-”

“It’s your costume! For the chariot ride.”

You only have to wear it once, but the thought is a small consolation.

*

You feel much better in the training center with your make up gone and your clothes plain and practical. The room is lined with stations: axes, camouflage, edible and poisonous plants, swords, bows, knots. You like knots. You pick up a coil of rope, made of something slick and silky, and get to work once you put a knot you haven't seen on the display.

"You're not going to practice with the axes?"

The other tribute from your district is flat faced with wide set eyes. Their muscles, like yours, are hard and wiry, but you think if they had gone less hungry, they could have grown up broad shouldered and tall.

“I already know how to throw axes.” You tug the rope straight and choose another knot. “There’s no point.”

A roar of laughter draws both yours and their attention to the gauntlet, the ropes course. One of the Careers, a stocky and bullish looking thing, had slipped from the ropes, dragged down by their weight, and falls to the ground like overripe fruit. You wonder, when broken open, if they would glisten as bright, if they would taste as sweet.

The Gauntlet is a line of rising platforms. The tributes leap from one to the next, sometimes up and sometimes down, until they reach the end. The trainers swing clubs to trip them, and every so often, there’s a pained cry to tell you one of them failed. At the end of the day, the Careers are filing out of the room while guffawing in self-important congratulation, when you come to stand at the start of the Gauntlet. The platforms stretch before you like tree branches.

One of the trainers looks at you questioningly, hesitant to remind you training for the day is over. It may be your size, how small and fragile you look, but they humor you. They brandish their club and wave at you in invitation, so you jump.

You’ve done this many, many times. You’ve done this when the platforms were wet, when they were rounded and rough. These are easy: flat and wide enough for your feet, slightly tacky for grip. The first trainer swings and misses because they’re used to taller, larger targets, so the next one aims at your feet and hits. You stumble, face falling forward but your hands are quicker, and you grip the ledge, the foam giving under your grip as you flip yourself over, feet hitting the next platform.

Now you know better: you know to be lighter on your feet. You swerve to your left as a trainer swings, the club only grazing your hip. You duck to avoid the next one. Now you know to crouch, and that’s how you scramble to the end of the Gauntlet: on all fours. You are the only one who succeeded.

*

“Look, you’re small. You’re young. I think you’ve already got a lot going for you as far as sponsors go. People love an underdog, and you’re a cute kid with a good score. If you play it up, there’s going to be enough people sponsoring you.”

Your eyes slide to the corner of your vision to look at your Mentor. Your first memory is of a fever. At the beginning, you remember someone singing, someone pressing something cool against your forehead. but by the time you woke up, they weren’t there anymore. The singing had been replaced by coughing, and the house smelled like rot, so you left.

You remember stumbling through the streets and sitting at street corners and staring at people with your wide, watery eyes. You watched as they tucked their faces deeper into their shirts and looked away as they passed you by. You were even smaller and younger then.

You mumble your agreement and get up to meet your prep team.

*

Your prep team dresses you in something loose. You feel like you’re drowning in cloth even as it slips from your shoulders to leave your collarbones bare. They’d been dusted with powder to make the hollows deeper, the edges softer. When you looked in the mirror, you stared at a stranger.

“Goodness, you’re just a tiny little slip of a thing, aren’t you?” Caesar says as you curl up in your interview chair. The light reflected from the camera lens stings your eye. “How old were you again?”

“Fourteen.”

“Fourteen! Did you hear that? Fourteen. That makes you the youngest tribute this Hunger Games, doesn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“How do you feel about that?”

You bare your teeth. “Like livestock for the slaughter.”

To your frustration, Caesar doesn’t miss a beat, taking only a moment to chuckle heartily at the crowd. “It seems like you’re hiding some claws! Why don’t you talk about your private session? A score of nine! What sorts of talents are you hiding?”

For your private training session, you set a dummy up in the middle of the room. You took particular care to set its head facing forward, neck straight. You tie something heavy to the end of the rope and throw it upwards, where it wraps around one of the rails running along the length of the ceiling. After tugging to make sure it was secure, you clench a knife between your teeth and begin to climb.

At the top, you adjust the rope so it ends about five feet from the dummy’s head. You knot it around your ankle and lower yourself inch by inch and breathing through your nose until there’s none left, and the dummy is in reach of your arm. Your hands are now free, so you take the knife and start to saw through the cords of its neck. Blood rushes to your ears, the sound only broken by the dummy’s plastic head hitting the ground. You climb back up.

You jump, cutting yourself loose before the rope pulls taut and flip. You land on your toes, knees and hands.

“I’m good at climbing trees,” you say, shrugging.

You’re not here to play their games. You’re here to survive.

*

When you’re launched into the arena, the first thing you notice is the smell. Pine. As the timer counts down, you close your eyes and inhale. The arena is a pine forest.

You can win.

*

The first tribute you kill dies like this: knife to the belly, slit up to the sternum as they wheeze and spit blood because their diaphragm was cut. You kick them away, scrambling to grab the rope and canvas bag with blood slick hands and run the fuck away.

One of the tributes roars as they swing their broadsword down on your head, but you jump forward, rolling in the grass before scrambling to your feet so quick you twist something but there’s no time for that you need to get to the trees. The rope goes over your shoulder and the bag’s handle into the crook of your elbow as you grapple at the tree bark and branches. You pull yourself up; you have no eyes for anything but the next branch.

“Where are they? Where the hell is that kid? Where the fuck is the kid that ran the Gauntlet?”

You are breathing harder than you thought you would. The blood on your hands is starting to dry and grow tacky so you wipe it against your clothes as you extend your leg to get a look at it. You're a good thirty feet up with other trees within reach if you need to run. You are as safe as you can be.

You touch your finger to your ankle, where the skin is hot and starting to swell. A sprain.

"There they are! There's the little brat."

The tree shakes as they slam their sword into the trunk. You catch the bag in time before it fell from your lap and get to your feet, get ready to jump. The Career, the one that fell from the ropes, whacks the trunk again, and this time, you nearly fall. Bark digs into the skin beneath your nails, sharp and painful, so you jump.

Your landing is messy, leaves you with the wind knocked out of you because you took a tree branch to the gut. You throw your leg up and over the branch, but the Career takes a swing at this one too, so you wrap your body around it and press yourself, cheek to bark.

You wait to catch your breath, and when you do, you fling yourself to the next tree. You feel wood beneath your hands, and you are safe you are safe you are safe-

The Career screams, and you brace yourself, not sure if you can hold on like this, but the shaking this time is smaller. You open your eyes and look down: one of the other Careers has started climbing. You panic and flail to kick them back down even though they’re nowhere near you and to get them touching something solid so you can run. You do. You jump again and as you fly you hear a branch behind you break and a yelp of pain.

"Look," says a different voice. Another Career, you think, but you don't bother to look. "We're getting absolutely nowhere with this one, so why don't we drop them for someone else? There's other tributes to kill, and we can come back to deal with this one later."

"Or, we could camp beneath this tree until the little snot nosed brat comes down to get water or food."

"And wait around like targets for everyone else? You can do that, but we're leaving."

They attack the tree one last time, hitting so hard they have to brace their foot against the trunk to wrench it free. You push yourself closer against the trunk, try to make yourself smaller and listen to the leaves and grass crunch as they move away.

*

You stay there, head tucked into your legs and hands over your ears until dusk when you unfold yourself. There’s crusted blood at the edge of your lips from where the knife cut when you bit down too hard. Your ankle throbs as you flex your foot, and your breathing is still short and quick. You don’t want to risk climbing with your leg like this, especially now that the light is fading.

You take the canvas bag into your lap and unzip it to take out the tent, made of some sort of waterproof material. There’s two pieces, so you hack one of them into parts, some as thin strips while others as large, haphazard circles. You crawl slowly to the end of this branch and wrap it around as many leaves as you can before knotting it shut.

A cannon shot draws your attention away. They flash the faces of the tributes that died today, and you’re surprised you recognize the face of the tribute you killed today. Their face looks placid and calm, while you remember it pain and desperation.

You crawl back to the trunk and scrape the bark away. Digging the knifepoint into the wood, you begin to carve: 9-M. 8-F. 12-F. 10-F. 10-M. 3-M. 1-M. 7-F. 4-M. 5-F. 6-M.

*

You wake up at dawn to the sound of birdsong. They’re mockingjays, probably, because you find those the most often when you’re in the forests at home. They’re a hardy bird, and you've eaten your fair share of mockingjays in your life. When you could, you’d climb the trees before they were hacked down for lumber and search them for mockingjay eggs. Once you are well enough, you think that’s what you’ll do, though you don’t like the idea of eating them raw.

Your ankle is no better than it was yesterday, but you’ve twisted it before and you know your body well. It’s not a terrible sprain, and you should be well enough within a week. Today, the next, the day after maybe will be risky, but you’ve watched the Games before. You should be relatively safe while the Careers are busy hunting the others.

You twist around and strip more bark from the tree, but this time you lay the strips across your lap. Once you have enough, you get to work stripping the white inner bark from the outside and stick the pieces in your mouth. You chew until nothing is left but a fibrous mass and spit it out. You eat until your mouth feels dry, when you crawl to where you tied the scraps of the tent. You shake it so the water gathers at the bottom, then untie it gingerly, careful not to spill anything. You gulp the mouthfuls gratefully, then raise yourself to another branch where you’d tied another and repeat the process.

You won’t be able to keep up your strength with meals like this and so little water. You’ll stay alive for a long while, but you won’t have the strength to fight. You need these Games to end quickly.

Cannonfire. You carve 11-M and 5-M.

*

You decide to scrape off the piece of wood and tuck it into your canvas bag to carry with you.

*

“Please. Please, please no. Don’t hurt me, just let me hide here. Please no they’re trying to kill me, just-”

You make a sharp silencing gesture at the tribute, and thankfully, they fall silent. Their breathing is still too loud, so you cover your mouth and look at them until they do the same. The sound is muffled now, and you hope the band of Careers didn’t manage to find them. Slowly, with great care, you go to collect the scattered bits of tent you’ve set up to gather water. Your hiding spot is blown, so you run.

“Wait,” they whisper. “Please, just help me. Help me. Please help me. I’m sure you could use an ally. Please.”

You ignore them and jump. You ankle was feeling better anyways.

“There they are! Get them!”

You run now; you can’t get away fast enough. The branches rustle behind you, and you’re sure the other tribute is following you. You don’t slow your pace; you don’t look back when a branch snaps and they scream and their bones crunch and snap under their own weight.

The screams peak before they fall silent, and in the distance, the cannon fires. You carve 9F.

*

You spend the day sawing off a branch. Your knife goes in and out, in and out, in and out. Your progress is slow, but you have the time. You only need to have it before nightfall when the light is gone. Wood dust puffs into your nose as you saw through it, and the smell reminds you of home. You catch it before it drops and lower yourself to the branch below. You’ve tied the rope to your waist and to the trunk, and now it is time for you to wait.

The Careers are camped not too far from here. You should be on high alert, should be wary of them, but but you lie back and drowse. There’s nothing for you to do but wait. There’s little in your mind but the sound of your own breathing, because that’s the way you want it to be.

You wait until nightfall, until well past the sunset. You wait until you know the Careers have gone to sleep when you drop the branch. The thud it makes scares even you. Your heart beats in your ear; your lungs feel desperate for it; your body feels suddenly too loud, but soon enough one of them comes to investigate.

You coil up the rope in your hand and descend until you are level with the other tribute, knife in hand. You toss it from your right hand to your left a couple times, the grip somewhat damp, before you plunge the knife into their ribs, other hand shooting forward to clamp over their mouth and pinch their nose shut. They thrash beneath you, hit you in the head so hard you go a little dizzy, but worst of all, they scream. It’s too loud, too loud even when muffled by your hand, and you’re desperate for quiet. You jerk your knife out and feel them stiffen in your arms from the pain and plunge it right back in, into the kidney and they go limp and quiet with shock. You feel yourself breath again.

You wrench it free and start cutting the throat. The blade goes easily enough through skin, through the veins. You use a little more force to get through the tendons and the throat muscle, but your knife isn’t sharp enough to cut bone. In response, you pull the knife out a tad, and the tribute makes a final, gurgling twitch, blood bubbling from their neck and onto your hand as you saw through their larynx, the cartilage crunching. Their bleeding has slowed to a steady ooze that’s soaked through your hands by the time you drop their half-decapitated body to the ground.

You wonder how you managed to climb back up, how you didn’t drop the knife with your hands so slippery, but you did. Now you wait for the dawn, when there’s enough light for you to run. Now you wait for the blood on your hands to dry enough to scrape away because you need to save your water for drinking.

You wait for the cannon shot, the broadcast to tell you who it was. You wait with the smell of iron clogging your throat, your eyes wide in the darkness and your breath rattling in your ribs.

*

You carve 11-F.

*

You scrape off two new pieces of bark. On one, you carve 9-M, 8-F, 12-F, 10-F, 10-M, 3-M, 1-M, 7-F, 4-M, 5-F, 6-M, 9-F, 11-M, 5-M, 11-F. On the other, you carve 1-F, 2-M, 2-F, 3-F, 4-F, 8-M, 12-M. Seven tributes left.

*

Your ankle didn’t ache when you flexed it this morning, so you wanted to give it a run. You were always the fastest back home, and by now, no one wants to race you anymore. You swing your hips forward and let go, and for a moment, you are flying; you are free. You are free until you catch the branch before you and stop.

Below you, you spot a tribute. They’re enraptured by their work: a tangled mess of gleaming wires. They haven’t noticed you, so you take the chance to wrap your rope around the trunk, your waist. This is easy, you say to yourself as you hop down. You’ve done this before. This is easy; you’ve done this before.

3-F.

*

The Gamemakers create a windstorm. It sends you tumbling to the ground, and you tear the skin from your palms scrabbling at branches to break your fall. You land with the hilt of your knife digging into your hip and thank no one in particular for small mercies. The impact shakes through your body, and the air bites at your hands, cheeks, your throat when you try to force it down into your lungs. You need to find shelter. You need to find some place safe from the wind, but your body is numb with pain.

The wind whips up the pine needles scattered across the forest ground, and they sting when hit your skin. Your throw your arms out to shield your face when you stumble to your feet. You walk in slow, careful steps crouched as close to the ground as you can. You need to find a ditch, a rock, something or anything to shield you while you wait out the storm.

You don’t know where you’re going; you don’t know where you are. It stings your eyes to keep them open, and a broken branch had just knocked you back off your feet. You’d rather one not hit you in the face, so you point your eyes downwards and squint at your feet. It’s the only thing you can manage, and you wonder if you’re the reason the Gamemakers set of the storm. You thought they would’ve liked it: some spilled intestines and a couple torn throats.

Something smacks into your shoulder and sends you stumbling backward and falling onto your ass again. The bone there is definitely bruised, you think. You make out the bland, camo pattern of their arena wear and run through the list in your head again: 1-F, 2-M, 2-F, 4-F, 8-M, 12-M. They look skinny and small, so you guess 8 or 12 and keep moving.

A grain of dust gets in your eye, and as you blink it away, your foot catches on a patch of dead leaves and slips, sending you tumbling forward into a ditch. There’s a trickle of a creek at the bottom, and you’re so happy you could cry. There’s a piece of the tent you haven’t touched yet, so you take it out now and stab your knife through it to keep it in place while you work on the other pegs. It’s a shitty job, one you’d never tolerate back home, but right now you’re not pitching a tent, really. You’re just nailing it down to keep enough of the wind out to avoid making your windburn worse.

You edge down to the stream, shallow enough for you to set up your shelter half on it, and dip your hands into the water and let its flow rinse away your half formed scabs and the smeared blood. Once clean, you see it doesn’t look so bad. Your cheeks, lips and hands are chapped and the skin there is probably red. It’s painful, but it’s nothing that’ll kill you. You’ll keep it clean until the the wind stops, and you can seal it with some pine resin.

*

It doesn’t.

At least you’re pretty sure no one’s going to come looking for you in this weather.

*

The wind stops when the cannons fire, so you pop your head out from under the cover to look: 2-M, 2-F, 8-M.

Three left. It’s almost over.

*

The only reason the Gamemakers stopped the wind, you think, was so they could retrieve the bodies. Your palms have scabbed over, but the scabs are still too fresh to move easily. You grimace as you flex your fingers to get them moving again. The creek dry this morning, and when you finally left your tent, you found the pine trees stripped clean of their needles.

The sight makes you laugh, though you regret it immediately after your lips crack. You’re very sure they sent the wind to attack you now, and you think the Gamemakers have spent their lives a little too well fed, a little too well watered. There’s other ways to get water from trees, but with only three tributes left, you don’t want to risk the Gamemakers pulling something strange to gather them together.

You hear a cannon shot as you walk through the forest, back to the Cornucopia. You left your tent where it was, and you arrive in time to see the hovercraft carry the dead tribute’s body away. Like you guessed, there’s a trough of water surrounding the Cornucopia now, and the Career is crouched knee deep and face submerged in it. They perk up when they hear you come closer.

“You,” they snarl, wrenching their broadsword, spotted with flecks of blood and rust, from the ground and stalking forward. They’ve lost weight while in the arena, and it’s left their cheeks hollow and their face gaunt. You take a step back.

“You,” they say again, grabbing the hilt with both hands and moving faster. You trip over a rock, but you scramble backwards as quick as you can. “I’m going to fucking kill you, you little piece of shit.”

They swing it down, burying the blade where you would’ve been if you hadn’t rolled out of the way. It takes them a second to get it free, but it’s the time you need to get to your feet and start running.

“Get back here,” they scream. “I’m not done with you!” They swing again, but you duck. You’re smaller than the last tribute they killed, but that won’t help you for long. You can’t run, not like this, not forever. Already your head is starting to swim from thirst, from how little you’ve eaten. You’re weak; you don’t know why you did this. They’re a Career. They’ve probably had sponsors keeping them fed the entire time.

You dart for the water, where you hope the mud will slow them down, but they’ve grown impatient now; they throw the sword at your head and you duck again. They bellow as it sinks to the bottom. The water is murky and you doubt they know how deep it is, and you don’t plan on letting them find out.

You skid to a halt with your knife gripped in both hands, and you charge back, shoulders braced and hunched but you only cut them on the forearm. Your vision goes black when they hit you at the base of your neck, and you fall to the ground. They throw their body on yours and knock the wind from you before seizing your throat in their hands and squeezing. You claw at their hands as your vision fades, pat the ground for your knife. Your fingertips brush against it, and now your vision is gone. You swing it blind, and hit something somewhere painful enough to make them let go.

You gasp and wheeze, the world suddenly too bright for your eyes. You scratched their eye, but you can’t stop there. You scramble to your feet and scream as you stab them in the gut, knocking them to the dirt with force you didn’t know you had. You slam your fist into their nose and your knife into their shoulder, and when they hit you in the face you stab them in the throat, slicing an artery and splattering blood into your mouth. You stab them in the eye, mouth, eye, throat, shoulder, collar, lung, mouth, eye, lung, throat-

You’re crying.

*

You wonder how long 1-F had been dead before you realized they were. You wonder how many times you stabbed them before the cannon fired and you stopped. It was probably a lot. Even now, while floating in the water around the Cornucopia, you can see the pulpy mass that was left of their face. You plunge your face into the water.

You think you would’ve vomited if there’d been anything in your stomach when you killed them. You saw the hovercraft clamp come down to claim the body, too drained to do anything but lie on your stomach in the grass beside them and watch. You wonder how the Peacekeepers will react to this corpse, how the Gamemakers will spin this murder. You wonder if the Capitol will be satisfied.

4-F. 1-F. You don’t need the bark to keep track anymore.

*

It’s only a matter of time before dehydration forces them from hiding, so you wait at the water’s edge. You think there’s a moralizing tale to be told from this. You remember learning somewhere that in some places, water is rare and so precious, that predators would not hunt their prey around watering holes. You giggle. The thought nourishes it into a laugh, a humorless and hollow one that has you crying on the ground and shaking until your sides hurt.

*

12-M comes out from the forest gaunt and stumbling, and as they come closer, you are startled to find you recognize them. They were the one who’d knocked you down during the windstorm, and your stomach twists from something more than hunger as they come into view.

Your eyes meet theirs as they approach the pond. You don’t think either of you wants to be the first to admit what has to happen next. The knife is next to your hand, but you don’t go to pick it up as you watch them drink from the pond. The water begins to bubble, but 12-M doesn’t seem to notice and dips their head in deeper and moans softly from quenched thirst. Your eyes narrow, and you open your mouth to comment, but before you can, 12-M whips back with a scream.

A fish, a muttation, hangs from their cheek. You get it. The Gamemakers filled the pond with fish muttations, flesh eating ones that would make it impossible to drink from. The 70th Hunger Games ends now.

12-M manages to rip the muttation from their face, tearing a hole in their cheek that exposed their teeth. It looks painful. You pick up your knife and start walking towards them. They’re trying to cover the wound and stem the bleeding with their hand, but it’s too much blood. It oozes through the cracks in his fingers, and you distantly contemplate how the sight is familiar. You stop in front of them.

12-M stares back up at you. You curl your fingers tighter around the hilt, but otherwise, you don’t move. They close their eyes and look away. They understand. They know, but it doesn’t make it easier. You grip them by their shoulder and sink to your knees so the two of you are eye level. Their breathing is quick and shallow from pain.

"It's okay," you say, swallowing but finding your mouth dry. "I've done this before."

You let them drop to the ground beside you, wheezing and gurgling their last moments away. You stare at the pond, but there’s no serenity to be found there. The surface looks like it’s boiling, there’s so many fish.

*

“Now, wasn’t that a Game? You’re just full of surprises aren’t you? Running through the trees like that, I thought you were flying!”

Caesar points the mic at you, but your silence doesn’t perturb him. He continues. “I had a good feeling about you after that interview of ours,” he says with a wink. “I knew you were hiding a secret or two. Would you believe me if I told you I had my money on you the whole time?”

You’d make a comment about how you would’ve loved to see some of that money in the arena, but you say nothing. Caesar’s face stays unchanged for a moment too long, and the sight almost makes you grin. Youngest Victor in Hunger Games history. Done with not a single sponsor, no less! Such an accomplishment. How do you feel about that?”

You look up for the first time since you walked on-stage. You don’t smile. You say the only word you will say for this interview.

“Victorious.”

*

During your Victory dinner, no one approaches you. Good. You like it better that way. A few of them stare at you as they pass by, from the corner of their eye, from behind statues or pillars. You wrinkle your nose at their idea of discreet and pluck a few petit fours from a platter to eat without tasting. You think the room is hot, so you step onto the balcony.

“There’s a story of a king from years ago who was faced with the army of the mightiest empire of the age. He had no choice but to fight, and he led his army to victory but at great cost. He proclaimed, ‘Another such victory, and I shall come back alone.’ The casualties he sustained were too great and devastated his armies, and despite two spectacular successes, he lost the war and his throne.”

“What. The hell.”

The man chuckles. “I take it you didn’t enjoy my story?”

You snarl. “I don’t like it when strange people come up and start talking to me out of fucking nowhere.”

“You’ve quite the mouth on you, don’t you?” He holds a fluted glass out to him. “A drink?”

“I’m fourteen.”

“If you would pardon me being blunt, I believe you’ve done quite a bit more in your short life than anyone else here. I doubt a little underage drinking would matter that much.”

He comes to your side and leans his forearms against the railing. His suit is deceptively simple, but you’ve been in the Capitol long enough to spot the expense in its tailoring, the way its embroidery only shows when it flashes in the right light. Everything about the man puts you on edge, the hairs on your nape stand straight. You think you fear him more than 1-F, because with 1-F, things were simple.

“What do you want.”

“Just to talk,” he replies, placing the glass on the stone rail and sliding it towards you. He tips his glass in acknowledgement before taking a sip. “I’m Erwin Smith, the new Gamemaster. I thought it would be wise to introduce myself. Get us off to a good start if, by chance, you Mentor for the next Games.”

You feel sick. “I’m leaving.”

“Wait,” Erwin says, grasping you by the wrist and tapping his fingertips against your skin. “I thought we could talk a bit longer.”

“What about,” you snap, “and stop fucking tapping what are you-”

It’s code, you realize as Erwin mouths the word. Thirteen.

“What the hell,” you hiss, voice low, “there is no District 13, not since the Capitol bombed it to bits. What the fuck are you trying to do asking me about this? I’ve had enough shit from them to last my whole damn life now leave-”

“District 13 is very real, I assure you,” Erwin murmurs into his ear, pulling him towards the balcony edge. “The Capitol hasn’t shown new footage of it since the first rebellion to hide the fact.”

A laugh bubbles in the back of your throat. “You have got. To be fucking shitting me.”

“I’m not.” Erwin’s expression is serious.

“I can’t be seen with someone like you,” you say. “Even if what you’re telling me is true. I know what the Capitol does; they’ll destroy me if-”

“But they won’t,” Erwin says, infuriatingly calm. “I’m only a Gamemaster asking a Victor for advice on the 71st Hunger Games. To most of the Capitol though,” he adds, pressing the pad of his thumb to your lower lip, “I’m just a man with questionable taste.”

The implication hits you harder than 1-F hit your head. You bite his finger hard enough to draw blood, and to Erwin’s credit, he only flinches slightly. It does much to endear him to you.

“You’re a sick fuck, you know that? You’re a sick fuck.”

He draws his hand away, untucks his handkerchief from his suit pocket to stem the bleeding. “It was a statement about the state of the Capitol than one about myself. Victors, the attractive ones, are prostituted out to its residents at the government’s leisure, and I assure you you’ve attracted the attention of more than one with enough wealth to spare.”

More than one can play at that game. You sidle up to his side, falsely sweet.

“Well then, Mr. Smith, when do we start?”

*

“What are you doing back so soon, Erwin? I sent you to infiltrate the Capitol, not to scurry back as quickly as you can.”

You squint your eyes at the woman storming down the walkway towards you and Erwin. Even from the distance, the resemblance is striking. “Asshole. You never told me you had a sister.”

Erwin coughs into his fist. “Ah. Must have slipped my mind.” He looks as calm and unreadable as ever, but he holds his shoulders more tightly than usual.

Erwin’s sister is his splitting image. They have the same set to their jaw, the same steel in their eyes. Their hair is cropped equally short, and you wonder if, when you cut them open, you’d find them equally hollow.

“Hello to you as well, sister.”

She snorts. “Hello, Erwin. Is this the one?”

“Yes. Please, if you’ll allow me to introduce my twin-”

“I’m capable of introducing myself, thank you.” Her expression is much gentler when she turns to look at you, but you’ve been around Erwin too long to be fooled. You are limited edition: the hot, special release from the Capitol. There’s only one of you each year.

“I am President Irina Smith, leader of District 13 and the Second Rebellion,” she says, extending her hand. “I apologize for any mistreatment you’ve suffered at my brother’s hands. Your name is?”

You shake. Irina’s grip is firm and unyielding. “Rivaille.”

She pulls away. “Rivaille,” she says, swirling it across her tongue. “Rivaille the Victor. No matter. Here, you are Levi of the Rebellion.” You don’t miss the possessive gleam in her eye.

“Welcome to District 13.”

 


End file.
